


E-9

by 100demons



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 13:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2508917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100demons/pseuds/100demons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This is it</i>, he thinks, a hot sticky humid summer night at a baseball field, dressed in shorts and his sleep shirt, listening to the sound of Tajima’s laughter echo in the night for the last time.</p><p>It always comes down to this, in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	E-9

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tastewithouttalent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/gifts).



It’s ten to midnight and Hanai’s not particularly surprised to see the pitching machine set up on the mound, spitting out balls in steady counterpoint to the clean cut of aluminum. The batted balls fly through the heavy and humid air, pinpoints quickly swallowed up by the oppressive darkness of the night.

Hanai curls his fingers through the wire links of the fence, metal biting into the soft flesh of his palms. Twinkling red and white lights play over his tanned brown hands, jerry-rigged Christmas lights and holiday decorations twined over the backstop fence to give better lighting for the occasional night practice.

If he squints, a little, he can make out the shape of two round curves hanging from the pitching machine-- gravure idol Ayase Haruka’s generous chest, taped up on the stand to “promote concentration.”

Stride forward, elbows closed in, hips opening, shoulders rotating and the familiar _ping!_ of a well-hit ball colliding with the metal bat and soaring through the night, beyond the confines of the dirt infield.

An odd silence falls as the machine whirs to a stop and Tajima steps out of the box, leaning his bat against his shoulder. The ball swoops in one long arc and caroms off the right field fence and into the shadows, the kind of ball that sinks deep into Hanai’s gut and fills his mouth with the sour taste of fear and slicks his palms with sweat. The kind of ball that would be a nightmare to field, glove hanging heavy off his hand, and a hundred hungry gazes digging into the exposed skin of his neck, waiting.

“Nice triple,” Hanai says, tipping an invisible cap.

“Inside the park home run in the top of the tenth,” Tajima corrects, his dark eyes thoughtful, as he surveys the expansive field. “Tomakomai’s right fielder has a strong arm, but I’ll be past second by the time he comes up with the ball. He’ll panic, fumble the ball, throw it a little too hard, a little off target, miss the third baseman, and I’ll be sliding home by the time the ball gets to their catcher.”

He swings the bat off his shoulder in one fluid motion, tosses it up in the air and catches it by the handle, upside down.

“Nishiura wins Koshien, five-four in eleven innings.”

“That kind of game would give me a stroke,” Hanai observes.

“But wouldn’t it be _fun_ ,” Tajima says, and the grave look on his face fades away into mirth, flipping off his batting helmet and shaking his damp head like a wet dog, sweat droplets flying everywhere. His dark curling hair, almost fully grown out of the shaved head from the beginning of the school year, clings to the pale skin of his forehead in wispy curlicues.

“You’re here,” Tajima says suddenly, as if now realizing that Hanai isn’t a figment of his imagination. “It’s late you know, don’t you live pretty far out?”

Hanai shrugs, one-shouldered. “I thought I might take some practice cuts before the game tomorrow but someone asshole beat me to it.”

Tajima rubs the back of his head sheepishly.

“You want something to eat? I stopped by the konbini on the way here.” Hanai raises up his hand, a plastic bag dangling from it.

Tajima grins, fairy lights flickering over the bridge of his nose in colorful imitation of his freckles. “You got any seeds?”

“You’re an addict.” Hanai shakes the bag, the muffled sound of juice cans clinking. “Ranch and BBQ. I had a feeling I might bump into you here. Go clean up and put your stuff away, I’ll be by the dugout bench.”

“Captain!” Tajima salutes, giving him a sly sideways sort of smile and Hanai salutes back with a rude gesture.

Tajima laughs, the curve of his mouth bright and so _Tajima_ and Hanai suddenly can’t bear to look him in the eye, instead clinging to the thin wire fence cutting through the space between them, holiday lights casting lonely shadows on the ground.

 _This is it_ , he thinks, a hot sticky humid summer night at a baseball field, dressed in shorts and his sleep shirt, listening to the sound of Tajima’s laughter echo in the night for the last time.

It always comes down to this, in the end.

 

* * *

 

 

They sit on the grassy banks of centerfield, two empty gallon buckets sitting to the side, surrounded by a scattered orbit of scuffed white baseballs waiting to be gathered up. Hanai rips open a second bag of sunflower seeds and pops a handful into his mouth, tasting the sweet and salty coating of barbecue flavoring.

“How many did you even hit tonight?”

Tajima spits into a paper cup. “I dunno, a couple hundred?”

“Shit,” Hanai says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I didn’t know you even knew what being nervous is.”

“Is that what it’s called? When you get that fluttery feeling in your chest and you feel like you’re gonna throw up?” Tajima asks earnestly, just barely dodging a punch to the head. “I’ve never felt this way before.”

“Very funny,” Hanai grumbles into his own cup, the dessicated corpses of his chewed up sunflower seeds looking back sadly at him. “It’s just I’ve never seen you like this before a game.”

After a long pause, Tajima says, “I don’t think it’s just a game."

“Ah,” Hanai dips his head in acknowledgement. “I guess you really can’t call the Koshien finals just another game.” He digs out another handful and passes it off into Tajima’s waiting palm.

They chew and spit and swig juice in a quiet silence for a bit, looking out towards the pointed prow of the infield, bereft of a second base bag.

“I’ve been thinking,” Tajima starts and Hanai refrains from pointing out the possibility of this damaging Tajima’s head.

“Yeah?”

“Tomorrow’s the last ever Koshien we’ll ever have, as something to think about, you know? After that, there’s no more dreams or thinking that we’ll be the best, next time, or maybe we’ll be the best again, we have one more chance. It’s only after now. No more high school baseball.” Tajima leans back on his hands, face turned up towards the black night sky, lit only by a passing flicker of a plane’s taillight. His eyes, obscured by shadow, glimmer faintly in the darkness.

Hanai swallows. “Oi…”

“But you know what?” Tajima turns his head toward Hanai, the line of his throat softening. “No matter what happens tomorrow, whether we win or lose––I’m glad I chose Nishiura, to play with you guys until the end.”

Hanai can’t help but stare helplessly, fingers tangled in the short outfield grass, his heart rattling in the fragile space between his lungs, uncertain. “Tajima–”

“Ah,” Tajima says and he blinks, owl-like. “I finally did it, I broke you.”

“You–!” Hanai lunges at him, slamming right into Tajima and pinning him onto the ground. His cup flies in parallel arc, scattering chewed up seed hulls everywhere. His fingers dig into Tajima’s skinny chest, twisting into the fabric of his Nishiura shirt, and he pulls Tajima up right into his face.

“Idiot! You can’t just say shit like that all of a sudden.”

“Shit like what?”

Hanai’s torn between strangling the look off of Tajima’s face or beating him into the ground. His grip tightens, knuckles whitening. “Shit like _that_ ,” he says, teeth clenched tight.

“What, about Koshien?” Tajima laughs and suddenly Hanai’s aware of how close they really are, close enough that he can count every single freckle on Tajima’s face, close enough that he can feel Tajima’s belt buckle dig into the tender skin of his thigh, close enough that he can see each and every lash that delicately frames Tajima’s wide dark eyes.

“Emotional shit,” Hanai says, aggressively ignoring everything.

“I wanted to. More than that, I felt like I had to.” Tajima licks his lips. Hanai tries not to notice. “It kind of feels like we’re dying.”

“Dying,” Hanai repeats.

Tajima shrugs awkwardly. “It’s the end and we’re never going to play this kind of baseball ever again. It’s all over tomorrow, you know? I wanted to tell someone that before it happens, kind of like my last words.”

“Last words,” Hanai repeats again.

“You keep saying what I said, are you okay?” Tajima peers up at Hanai from underneath his lashes.

He’s much lighter than Hanai had ever thought, thin and delicate and small enough that Hanai can curl his hands around the soft skin of Tajima’s throat and have his fingertips overlap.

“I give up,” Hanai informs him and drops Tajima onto the ground, rolling off of him to his side. The grass is cool and prickly against the thin fabric of his shirt and Hanai throws an arm over his eyes.

“For such a baseball-obsessed idiot, you always say the right thing.”

“Hanai–”

Something light tugs on his arm, away from his face, and Hanai looks up at Tajima’s wide eyes. The lines of his sharp jaw waver and blur and Hanai jerks his head to the side, watching the world slowly fade out of focus in a wash of tears. 

"Looks like it's raining tonight," Tajima says, quiet. He cradles the curve of Hanai's face with one hand, calluses gentle against soft skin, the tip of his thumb wiping tears away from the corner of Hanai's eye. 

Hanai has seen those hands wrapped around the handle of a bat, wrists twisting lightning-like mid-swing; he's seen the fingers curled around the red seams of a hardball right before the gunshot to first to get the runner; he's seen Tajima reach out into the sky with his glove, free hand cradled around the side to steady it as he waits for the foul ball to drop, never wavering.

They feel sure against his cheek, radiating a slow burning warmth.

Tomorrow, he’ll wear his uniform and run out onto the field, Nishiura on his heart and his team at his back. After the game, he’ll scoop up a handful of dirt from the Koshien infield and carry it home in the pocket of his glove, go out to dinner with his family and then fall asleep listening to a DVD recording of the game. He’ll pick up his books later and think about colleges and exams, and maybe he’ll even call Izumi about homework and text Tajima about what the scouts are thinking about his chances in the draft, did he get word back from the Hanshin Tigers yet, or if the Seibu Lions still thought of using their first round pick on him.

Tonight, Hanai makes one last play.  

"I've been thinking about something too."

Tajima smiles. "Yeah?"

"I'm glad I chose Nishiura, to play with you until the end." Hanai reaches up and wraps his hand around the back of Tajima's neck, thumb pressed against the tender echo of his heartbeat. 

He tugs down and meets Tajima's open lips halfway. 


End file.
